Black-gold Weather.

Today is overcast, threatening to rain. It’s that awkward mix of hot-cold weather that makes you question what temperature it really is and you really just end up being angry at the weather. Why can’t it make its mind up? A cup of black coffee, an americano, sits in front of me. She sits opposite me, her hair falling perfectly to frame her face. She contemplates her coffee and looks towards mine, tracing the steam with her eyes until they meet mine. She says she doesn’t know how I can drink that poison. I laugh, and I sip my poison. I tell her I sip, I don’t drink, see? She is not impressed with my word play, but doesn’t mind it, I think. Her eyes dance as she sips her caffe-latte. A small drip-drop of rain has started. She wonders where the waiter is with her food; I say in return that she should relax and enjoy the rain. The rain continues to fall. I don’t really want it to rain, neither does she. But the rain doesn’t need our permission to fall, it does what it wants. It was cold now. The weather had decided what it wanted to be.

I said I wanted to take some art lessons. She said she took art lessons last year and it helped. She told me you learn to draw a flower pot by tracing the outline and filling in the details later. I found this weird and it made me think of life. We fill in the outlines and let fate color the insides. The rain was still falling, the weather cold. I wished I could be like the weather and decide what I wanted to be. I told her I wanted to make art. She said she wanted to draw because her writing works better with drawings. I thought about drawing with words, writing is that – isn’t it? She moved her hair, put one side behind her ear – out of her eyes. I felt rain dripping on my seat and moved to get closer to the other side of the table. She giggled and I thought it sounded a bit like music. Good, gentle music. The steam from my black coffee was starting to lessen. I couldn’t feel the rain anymore; it was still cold. She saw her food, spaghetti, and smiled. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone happy about spaghetti. I thought she was kind-a weird, but nice. I finished my coffee and ordered another. The weather it seems had decided what it wanted to be; I wondered if I should decide. She’s cute, and my heart makes a cliche skip-a-beat whenever I see her. I think my eyes dance too. Yes, I should decide. If the weather can, so can I. But maybe another time. For now, my coffee sits in front of me, and she across. She smiles and her long hair frames it. This is enough for now; this little bit of happiness is enough.

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